


Withering Roses Still Have Thorns

by Kii_Chan



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Fluff and Angst, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:17:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kii_Chan/pseuds/Kii_Chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reborn into a world Jean doesn't quite understand, he searches for Marco using the memories from his past life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Withering Roses Still Have Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first piece on Ao3, as well as my first SnK fic. I hope you like! :)

This world was different. 

Jean would have said "this time", because really that's what it was, but to him, it seemed like a completely different world. He didn't remember how that despair-stricken, treacherous world he lived in before ended, nor did he know how he himself had "ended", because those were things a reincarnated person shouldn't remember. 

At least, that's what he thought. 

That thesis, however, didn't explain how he remembered everything else. 

The blood, the fighting, the danger, the fear. 

The civilians, the soldiers, the corrupt military police, the Titan shifters, the Titans. 

And him... 

Yes, this world was very much different. 

Jean sometimes wondered how differently he behaved in this world. He lived everyday meaninglessly, following a half-hearted schedule, never really searching for a meaning to live. He didn't need one. It was too easy to just live. 

Some things from his previous life transferred into this one. His appearance, obviously, as well as certain traits of his less-than-friendly personality. In this world, he'd met with many people he'd known, and like him, they seemed almost the same. 

Eren was still an annoying asshole with a too-loud voice. Armin was still small, and blonde, and smart. Mikasa was still kinda pretty but overprotective of Eren. Connie was still somewhat normal. Sasha still loved food. Christa was still the shortest. 

The others, too, outside of the 104th squad were the same. 

Commander Erwin was still blank-faced. Hanji still conducted over-zealous experiments. Corporal Levi was still short, and scary, but Jean saw the tender looks he allowed himself to give Eren. 

Jean wondered if they were like that in their previous life. He suspected so. He hadn't noticed it back then, because they didn't have the luxury of sneaking glances and blushes and tender words and shared kisses. 

The ones that had essentially "betrayed" them were much the same, as well. Annie, Reiner, Bertolt... Even Ymir was the same, though she pursued Christa much more fervently in this world. 

Just about everyone was accounted for. Jean went to school with most of the people from the Trainee Squad, as if the world was determined to throw them together. They were all unable to part, trapped, isolated away from the rest of the world, held by the tortures of their past. 

That's how Jean felt, because there was still a stiffness in his chest that felt oddly like a hollow hole. 

Sometimes, Jean just wanted to smile and let go. He wanted to forget the past, like those around him were beginning to do. He could forgive people like Annie, just, and he could learn to live with Eren's constant jerk behaviours and Armin's caring personality and Levi's shit jokes that made everyone but him and sometimes Eren uncomfortable. 

But he couldn't. It was as if thick chains were tightening around his entire body, threatening to pull him under, forbidding from letting go and flying towards the peace where everyone else was heading. 

Jean found himself noticing how alone he truly was more often in this world. Sure, he had friends and family and thousands of people he didn't know but coexisted with him, but it was the times he was alone that truly made an imprint in his mind. He was slowly spiralling out of control, and he didn't know how long he could wait- 

Except, what was he waiting for? 

No one was going to save him - truthfully, there was nothing to save him from. No Titans. No corrupt Military Police. Hardly any diseases or injuries that this world's medicine couldn't heal. 

Over time, he began to realize just what was pulling the end of the chains around him, but it was nothing he could place a name to. It was something anonymous, faceless, something unidentified that he didn't even know how to begin treating. 

Night was the worst time for Jean. He hated his bedroom, he hated his bed, he hated sleep. Sleep only brought grinning faces of metre-tall monsters, screams and the echoing image of trembling hands coated in blood that wasn't his own. 

Worst of all, he got to see him again. 

He should have felt glad to remember that person's face. He should have treasured those memories, because it wasn't certain that every person would get reincarnated into the same time period as him. He should have felt happy to remember the words they shared... but he wasn't. 

When he closed his eyes, all he saw was that person slumped against the wall, his previously lively eyes dull and his previously smooth, soft skin a sickly white colour that made Jean nauseous. 

Marco! 

Often, Jean would sit against the wall on his bed and stare down at his small analogue clock. His eyes would ache with the strain, and his neck would cramp, and his skin would turn gross with sweat from the shakes he always got after a particularly bad dream but he wouldn't dare sleep until the sun lit up the world and he was sure the next day would definitely come. 

That's where he found himself that night, pressed against the wall with his knees pulled up and his face in his hands. His eyes were wide, and constricted, because that face was stuck in his head. He thought he would cry, but he didn't. His lungs wouldn't allow for breathes to even let out a quiet whimper - they were too constricted, to match his tight throat. 

He was careful not to cry out when he woke up in a startled fit on nights like these, but this night he couldn't help it. He stared down at his duvet, as if it would suddenly offer comfort and warmth. He didn't even hear the knock on his door until it was too late and the light was turning on then Armin was rushing into the room followed closely by Eren and then Christa- 

Jean really wanted to cry. 

"Jean!" Armin, like always, sounded worried and frantic over something that should've been nothing. His hair was still as blonde, his eyes still as big and blue, and when he crawled onto Jean's bed, he felt that Armin's body still radiated the warmth of life. "Jean, are you okay?" 

Jean flinched, and without lifting his head, batted away Armin's hands. He blonde stilled, but didn't move any further, knowing that Jean hated to be pushed. "I'm fine. It was just.... Nothing." 

Armin frowned at the obvious lie. "Jean... I thought we were all getting better." 

Jean knew where this was going, and he just really didn't want poor Armin worrying over him anymore. He forced himself to lift his head, and grin. "Really, I'm fine. It was nothing. Really." 

Armin didn't look convinced, but Eren did. He let out an indignant huff, grabbing Armin's shoulder. "If the horseface says he's fine, let's leave him be." He grumbled. "I want to sleep." 

"Are you sure you're alright, Jean?" Christa asks, wringing her small hands. It wouldn't be long before Ymir came after her, but she wanted to make sure her friend was fine before that. "I could make some tea if you want to talk-" 

"I'm fine." Jean grins. "Really." 

Christa blinks, frowns, before nodding understandably. "Alright. See you tomorrow, then!" 

Her departure was timed nicely as Ymir came through and steered her away, an unusually concerned look on her face as she stared down at the innocent girl she roomed with. Armin and Eren left next, but neither turned the light off nor shut the door, which made Jean glance towards it. 

Annie was standing half behind the doorway, her hooded eyes watching him. Her fingers were curled around the doorframe. Her brows furrowed as an almost regretful or grieving looks passed her face. Her fingers tightened. She didn't say anything as she let her arms hang free before she left, thankfully turning the light off and shutting the door behind her. 

Jean covered his mouth with his hands when everything was dark again. He was too prideful to ask someone like Armin or Christa to stay with him a little longer, and he couldn't ask the others unless he wanted to be ridiculed for the rest of his life. 

He really hated the night.

-

He remembered one time, when it was very dark outside and no lights where on in the houses they resided while training to be soldiers that he and Marco had stayed up and talked. Neither of them really initiated the hushed conversation; it came so naturally and easily. 

"I want to see a garden," Marco had said with wide eyes and a happy grin, "A garden full of roses! Wouldn't that be wonderful, Jean?" 

"Why roses?" Jean's nose had wrinkled with disdain. He wasn't overly fond of flowers, nor did he particularly have any opinions towards gardens. Really, he just wanted to survive. 

"There was a lady who lived down the road to me that grew roses." Marco says. "When I was younger, before I joined the military, she would give a rose to our family whenever they were in full bloom. My mother loved them." 

Jean's heart thudded faster at the endearing look on Marco's face. They were laying side-by-side on Jean's bed, and Marco was smiling fondly as he absentmindedly hid his face in the bed sheets. He hadn't meant to at the time, but he had reached for Marco's hand. Marco had jumped, eyes widening, but wouldn't let Jean pull away even as he stuttered out weak excuses. 

Those warm fingers had felt so good around his. 

Jean ached to feel them again.

-

Marco's wish had always stuck in Jean's mind. He knew he would never forget that look on Marco's face. 

In this world, gardens full of flowers and trees were common. In fact, the university everyone went to and boarded at was close to a specific garden that catered to a large meadow of roses that was planted next to a man-made pond. Whenever they were in bloom, many people would visit. 

The first time Jean went, he went alone. He'd never told everyone else he goes there when the roses bloom, because none of them really know about the garden. 

But he went alone nonetheless, because as soon as he got to that rose garden, he broke down into heart wrenching sobs that stained his hands with thick, salty tears. 

He was glad he went late at night, barely before the garden closed, when no one was around to see the roses that were slowly starting to return to their budded forms. 

The next night he went there again, the owner of the park had come up behind him and gently touched his shoulder. It was an older woman who owned the garden and ran it in the family. She looked very familiar, and Jean wondered if he'd met her in his previous life, maybe even saved her. 

She had a sad look on her aged face, but had murmured, "Roses aren't meant to be seen alone." Jean had started tearing up. She then pulled a small silver key out of her pocket and pressed it into his palm. "When that person comes to you, fulfill their wish for me, okay?" 

Jean got along with that woman well. Many times she let him into the park with that key during night so he could sit among the thorny roses and watch as the wind rippled across the small pond before him. She sometimes stayed until he inevitably showed up, in which she would offer him some freshly made mochi if it was that time of year, or beautiful herbal tea, or even something as simple as a sandwich she had saved from the cafeteria earlier during the day. 

At lot of the time, Jean didn't go there only during the night. He went during the day, as if he expected Marco to be waiting there for him so he could see the roses. 

Marco was never there.

-

Jean was slowly losing all the life he was born with. It was as if the flame of his soul was slowly being burned out by waterfalls of salty water and the never ending pain of being completely alone in a crowded room. 

He didn't bother hiding his whimpers, nor did he bother hiding his depression from Armin or Christa or even Eren who was so strangely concerned at Jean's sudden turn for the worse that he hadn't said "horseface" in months. 

He visited the rose garden as much as possible. Despite it bringing pain to his very being, it also brought him the memory of Marco smiling, of Marco blushing, of Marco holding his hand, of Marco being alive and healthy and with him. 

Jean wondered if Marco was reborn, and if he was, did he remember? Jean wondered that if Marco was reborn, and he didn't remember, would he still want to see him so badly? Could he take the pain of seeing Marco happy and alive with someone other than him? 

He didn't want to think about it. 

Still, he hoped for Marco to be at the rose garden, waiting with that smile. He remained hopeful, even when the bags under his eyes were worse than Levi's and his bones began to peek through his skin and he started skipping all of his classes to stay hunched in the farthest corner of the rose garden where only he and the landlady knew about.

-

Jean was sure he would die soon. He still ate, but he grew thinner and thinner. He still slept, but those minutes he usually slept where getting shorter and shorter each night. He still remained in school, and mostly lived at the boarding house with all the others, but he didn't speak often and he didn't attend any of the parties or celebrations they planned. 

He missed his own birthday party. 

He didn't cry much anymore. 

He didn't scream at his nightmares, either. 

He didn't smile. 

Laughing was also out of the question. 

He didn't enjoy life anymore. 

Why was he still so alone? 

He wanted Marco. He needed Marco. 

I miss you so much, Marco...

-

Still, there was no sign of his precious friend in the rose garden. The flowers seemed to lose their vibrancy and vitality as the seasons passed, as if his presence was wearing down on them. 

He hated himself.

-

Armin, always so smart and perceptive, eventually found out where he'd been going. 

He, like the rest of them, didn't understand Jean's desperation to be near the wilting roses. They didn't understand it was what Marco dreamed of. They didn't understand that Jean dreamed only of seeing Marco, but his dreams always turned twisted and that happy domestic life he yearned for so much turned into gaping Titan mouths and Marco's pale face and blood and screams. 

They didn't understand. 

It was as if they didn't even remember him anymore.

-

Jean didn't understand the roses. They bloomed so beautifully, only to wilt and die over an extended period of time, and then remain barren for the rest of the year until the seasons turned and they began their struggle to bloom all over again. 

Eventually, like the roses, he began to wilt. He didn't attend school, instead taking an extended period of time off. He didn't talk to his roommates anymore, not even Armin or Christa. He hardly slept. He hardly ate. 

He couldn't bare it anymore.

-

"When things seem the darkest, remember that that darkness wouldn't exist without a little bit of light. If you can find that light, and make it stronger, you'll be safe, no matter what happens!" 

Marco's voice wouldn't leave Jean's head. 

He remembered what the freckled boy had said, and plucked up the motivation to search for the light that Marco so enthusiastically declared existed in even the darkest of places. 

He didn't find it.

-

Another season came and went and the roses began to bloom again. It was unnaturally cold, so there were hardly any people at the park. 

Jean couldn't take it anymore. His body was so weak, and so frail, much like the heart he assumed had withered like the roses long ago. 

Even surrounded by the object of Marco's dreams, he felt his knees buckling, and as he collapsed in front of the bond's edge, his body bowed. He could see his face in the reflection of the water. It was the face Marco had not-so-secretly watched when he thought Jean wasn't looking, the face he sometimes touched when he thought Jean was asleep, the face he smiled at whenever Jean did something he thought was extremely embarrassing. 

Jean wanted to cry. He really, really wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. Everything seemed lodged in his throat, where a lump was threatening to block his airways. 

He reached out with thin fingers, touching the pads of his fingertips to the waters trembling surface over where his face was. The water rippled, and distorted the image into an unrecognizable blur of two-tone hair, ashen skin and the now too-big grey sweater he wore. 

He forced himself to stand, and stared out over the water. The roses bloomed just behind him, neatly lined up in their thick rows. They were of all colours, beautifully groomed and grown by the landlady, who had taken it upon herself to personally raise the roses ever since Jean began visiting regularly. 

He heard footsteps behind him, but his body didn't react. 

"Jean?" 

He flinched, his fingers finding his sides as he dug them in sharply. His chest began to pump up and down with his laboured breathes that barely reached his lungs. He felt like collapsing again. 

"Jean!" 

Jean had never turned around so fast, at least, not in a very, very long time. He almost stumbled, but his eyes stayed steady, instantly finding the person calling his name. 

He knew he must be dreaming, that he must be dead by now. 

Marco was standing at the edge of the roses, one hand half-outstretched, his beautiful eyes widened. He looked just the same as Jean remembered, though he face was slightly most rounded and his fluffy hair was slightly longer. 

He was just as beautiful as ever, maybe even more. 

Jean couldn't take it. His legs collapsed from out under him as he hunched over, his shoulders unable to even wobble upright under the weight bearing down on them any longer. The tears finally came as he let out scream that blew away with the breeze. 

"Jean!" 

It was defiantly Marco's voice that called out so frighteningly, and definitely Marco's solid weight that fell into him from above. It was definitely Marco's strong, sturdy arms that wrapped around his trembling body ever so carefully, and it was definitely Marco's familiar and soothing scent that reached his nose. 

Jean cried harder. It wasn't the high crying that Armin did when he remembered Eren's first death after being saved from a Titan's mouth, nor was it the determined, rage filled anger that boiled the tears in Eren's eyes. It was deep, and throaty, and filled with years of resentment towards everything in this world and the cold absence of Marco in his life. 

"Jean." Marco breathed, tightening his arms, his own body sagging. "Jean. Jean. Jean." 

"Why?" Jean screamed, struggling, but he didn't know what he was resisting, and he didn't have the energy to keep it up after a moment. "Why?" He whispered in between sobs that were becoming muffled as he tried to rein in and salvage whatever was left of his dignity. 

Marco clutched him tighter. "Jean, I'm here. Please." He pleaded. "Please, Jean..." 

For whatever life he had, Jean couldn't figure out what this angel wanted. He cried harder, clenching and unclenching his fists trapped against Marco's chest. 

"Jean..." Marco whispered, pulling back to wipe both his thumbs against Jean's cheeks. He kept doing it, clearing away the tears that didn't stop, even when Jean squeezed his eyes shut into a pained expression and sobbed harder. 

Eventually Jean forced himself to stop, to take a moment and wipe away his own face with the edge of his sleeves. He was sure he looked like an ugly mess - blotched cheeks, bloodshot eyes, red nose to the point where he was sure he would get snot everywhere if he cried anymore. 

Words weren't coming to Jean. For once, he had no idea what to say, or where to even start. He wanted to ask so many things, to say so many things, but what words could possibly be good enough to express what he was feeling inside? 

But then Marco started to laugh. It was that happy laugh he used to hide behind his hands. This time, he kept his hands cupped around Jean's face as that carefree smile stretched across his face and his eyes closed in an expression of nothing but joy. 

Jean felt the tears coming again. Oh how he'd missed that bubbling laughter and that cheeky smile. He missed the sound of Marco's voice and the look in Marco's eyes when he was happy and... everything. Everything about Marco. He felt tears swelling up in his eyes before they started falling again. Unwittingly, a weak smile touched his lips as it was all he could do not to throw his arms around the freckled boy and never let go. 

Marco quelled his chuckles, slouching forwards to rest his forehead against Jean's. "I'm so sorry I left you, Jean. I've missed you so much." 

"Me too." Jean whispered. His voice was gravelly and rough, and his words were very distorted, but he knew Marco would understand. Marco always understood. He gripped Marco's jumper tightly, pressing as close as he could without pushing Marco over. "Are you really here?" 

"That's a silly question." Marco chuckles, smoothing his big hands down Jean's trembling shoulders. "I've searched for you for so long; I'm never going to leave you again. My parents travel a lot, so we're never in one place for long..." 

Jean felt his heart stumble over a beat. Marco wasn't living here permanently? 

"Jean, don't cry anymore!" Marco begged, his eyes widening as Jean's shoulders shook harder. "Didn't you hear me? I'm not going to leave you now that I've found you." 

"But... you move a lot, right? I can't go with you, everyone else is here and I have university and..." 

"Jean, I said I'm never going to leave you. You don't need to go anywhere, because wherever you are, I'll be right beside you." Marco pulled him close, letting Jean rest his head in the crook of his neck. "From now on, we'll be inseparable." 

Jean liked the sound of that. The thought of Marco being with him, of always be with Marco was very pleasing. It soothed the ache in his chest, and slowly unravelled the lump in his throat. He slipped his arms around Marco's back and held him tighter. "Marco?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I..." Jean was going to say it. He wanted to. "I..." 

Marco smiled, letting out another quite huff of muffled laughter. "I love you too, Jean." 

Like always, Marco understood Jean without the need for words.


End file.
